‘The house may be a ruin, but the land is good, surely, Uncle. It seemed lush, and it goes on forever. It will raise a handsome sum.’
‘Land is cheap in Scotland, and the sum raised will not be enough. What do you know about land? You are but an ignorant girl and no help at all,’ he spat. ‘You only have your pretty face to recommend you.’ He frowned. ‘Perhaps that is the answer - your pretty face. We must trade on that, yes.’ Without further explanation, he stormed outside.
Tara bit back tears and stooped to put more wood on the fire. She waited for her uncle to come back and calm down but then the sound of hooves had her running outside. Her uncle was riding away.
‘Uncle, come back. There were soldiers in the woods,’ she shouted after him, but he did not turn around, and soon, the drum of his horse’s hooves faded as the trees swallowed him. Tara was left to the howl of the wind coming down off the mountains, and beyond that, nothing but silence - dead, lonely silence. She strained her ears for the longest time, every nerve stretched to breaking point, but she could not hear anything, not the soldiers, nor her uncle, nothing, so she turned and went inside the cottage.
She barred the door as best she could and sat before the fire. Now she knew why they could not stay in Inverness. They could not afford it. Suddenly, the full scale of their fall hit her. They had nothing save debt and a shabby cottage.
It would be dark soon. Tara got to her feet and rummaged in a cloth bag for her uncle’s musket. She rolled it around in her fingers and then banged it down on the table. She didn’t know how to load it. She knew nothing, and was of no use. She was but a burden on her uncle.
He had said this was an adventure? How could it be, with predatory soldiers on the loose and winter coming on? No, it was more like an exercise in survival. And it was so remote and lonely at Braecaple, with no soul to talk to, and set amid vast rolling glens and ominous mountains. The roads would surely become impassable in heavy snow.
How were they going to survive? How was she going to bear living like this?
Chapter Seven
Callum ran his hand along the mare’s smooth flanks and down its haunches. It was a fine beast, packed with muscle and twitchy with vigour, its winter coat thick. It stared at him through soft brown eyes, bright with intelligence.
‘Tis a fine beast, Callum, but why a mare? Would you not prefer a gelding?’ said Bryce.
‘No. She’s beautiful, and I want her,’ said Callum.
‘As you like.’ Bryce grinned – a sure sign mischief was on its way. ‘My Uncle Dunbar is hosting a gathering to celebrate the return of my cousin, Hew, from London, and you are coming.’
‘No, I am not. You know I despise such occasions, and your cousin Hew too.’
‘Oh aye, you prefer to live like a miserable hermit at Raigmoor and curse the world with bitterness.’
‘Then it is best I don’t come and offend all those fine folk with my miserable countenance.’
‘My uncle has extended his invitations far and wide, and you know who will be there - that delectable blonde pudding you long to eat - Tara Hennaut.’
Callum’s hand stopped mid-stroke. ‘Since when does your Uncle Dunbar court the favour of an Englishman?’
Bryce shrugged. ‘Oh, he and Ralph Hennaut are negotiating over that land at Braecaple that must be sold.’
‘That land borders mine,’ said Callum, frowning. ‘He is not thinking of selling to Dunbar, is he? I hardly want the Gordons as neighbours.’
‘I don’t know about the land, but I heard whispers around Inverness. Ralph Hennaut and his niece have been reduced to living in a cottage up there as the main house at Braecaple has fallen into dereliction.’
‘He would surely not house Tara there? ‘Tis in the middle of nowhere. When did this happen?’
‘I cannot be sure. A few weeks ago. But if he cannot afford lodgings in Inverness, then he is worse off than we thought. Those two are the object of great fascination and some spite, being English and all. Some folk say Ralph has great wealth, and it certainly appears so, the way he carries on. But as I see it, the man’s pride is all he has left. And there is something untrustworthy about the fellow. Ralph Hennaut is like a beetle that has fallen on its back and cannot right itself.’
‘But they are esteemed, are they not, the Hennauts? The Shaws are good friends of theirs.’
‘Aye, the Mistress Shaw especially dotes on that lass. She has her claws sunk in deep.’
Callum continued to stroke the mare, but his head was elsewhere. Tara Hennaut was living but a short ride away from Raigmoor, on his doorstep. She would be there at the gathering. He would be able to see her, drink in the sight of her pale loveliness.
‘I fear for the lass,’ said Bryce.
‘What?’
‘By herself, in winter, in that cottage, miles from civilised company, and at prey from less than civilised company.’
‘She is not alone. Her uncle is with her, Bryce.’